Digging In
by Frankie McStein
Summary: A snapshot of the boys in the Korengal.


He stumbled as the soldier who had been dragging him along gave him a shove. With three other men standing around with guns, he didn't even try to fight back. Just let himself fall to his knees and stayed there. It was raining heavily, and, usually, they were safe when it rained. The soldiers didn't seem to like moving around much when it was wet and tended to leave them all well enough alone. Of course, it meant they didn't get food; even the usual stale scraps were missed when they were withheld. But they'd all agreed it was worth it to avoid being the focus of the Taliban soldiers' attention.

He looked around at the dirt patch where he'd been dragged. The usually hard ground was soaked, a thick and viscous mud covering the earth. And a shovel. He drew in a sudden breath, ignoring the pain that danced along his ribs and flared in his back. He had an idea of what was about to happen. He couldn't make the fear go away, but he would be damned if he would let them see it, so he pushed it down, viciously and thoroughly. He lifted his head and stared at the general, the man who had stood at the door of his solitary confinement cell and tormented him with lies about his friends being dead. He was always there when it was Magnum being tortured. Because that's what it was. The soldiers kept calling it interrogation and making a show of asking questions but, amongst themselves, Magnum and his friends called it what it was: torture.

The general simply smirked and pointed to the shovel. "Dig."

Magnum knew the guy spoke fluent English but, if he wasn't spinning carefully constructed lies or threats, he kept his words to a bare minimum whenever addressing his prisoners. One of the soldiers stepped forward and gave Magnum a hard poke between the shoulders with the barrel of his rifle. He fell to his hands from the force of the blow, mud splashing his face. Someone snickered, and he heard something being said. The exact words were lost on him, but he thought it was something about him being 'an American pig.'

The same soldier who pushed him reached down and grabbed his arm, yanking hard, dragging Magnum closer to the shovel.

"Dig," came the command again.

Magnum grabbed the shovel and allowed himself a single second to entertain the idea of leaping to his feet and swinging the shovel hard at the general's face, knocking him into the mud. If he swung it hard enough, he was willing to bet he could break the monster's jaw. Then he sucked in another deep breath and pushed himself slowly to his feet, leaning far more heavily on the shovel than he would have liked.

The mud was heavy, slopping off the shovel every time he tried to lift it. It was thick enough that it didn't flow back into the hole as he dug so, despite what he was expecting, Magnum actually did manage to dig a hole. It took hours through which he wasn't given food or water. Every time he tried to rest his arms or catch his breath, he was told to keep going. Every time he took too long to start moving again, he was given a shove. Once the soldier who was 'motivating' him struck his already broken rib, landing a solid punch that left Magnum sprawled on the ground and gasping for breath that seemed to keep eluding him.

The men laughed as he lay there, and Magnum wanted desperately to just stay where he was. He was in so much pain, so tired, it would be so easy to just lie there until the rain drowned him or the general got bored and had him shot. But they had all sworn that they were in this together, that there was no leaving unless they were all leaving. As long as there was a choice in front of them, then giving up wasn't an option. So Magnum forced his aching, throbbing body to roll over, pulled his arms under himself, forced his shaking legs to bend and take his weight, and hauled himself back upright.

By the time the hole was big enough and deep enough for the general's taste, the rain had stopped and the sun had nearly set. The clouds that were still covering the sky had been turned to fire by the sinking sun, red and orange shining through the gray gloom. Magnum had been dragged out of the hole, now just about the right size to hold a man's body, and dumped in a heap at the general's feet. The general stepped back as if Magnum weren't a human being but a pile of something nasty he was trying to avoid getting on his shoes. Magnum was too tired to think, too tired to track what the men around him were doing.

He didn't even lift his head until he heard a familiar voice yelling his name. Even then, all he could do was stare dumbly as Rick was dragged out into the yard, a soldier on each arm and another keeping a gun trained on him. Magnum couldn't seem to react to anything. He watched as Rick was hauled to the edge of the hole and forced to his knees. Even when he realized the gun that was pointed at Rick was his own sidearm, all Magnum could do was stare. Some small part of him was worried about what was about to happen to Rick, but it was such a small part, and he had so little energy, and there was so much pain.

The general was saying something, but there was a roaring in Magnum's ears that was drowning out the words. Something grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. The pain made him want to yell, but all he managed was a gasp.

"Stand. Back. Up." The general snapped every word, carefully pronouncing each one as he snarled them into Magnum's ear.

Magnum reached out for the shovel without even blinking, hoping he would be allowed to use it as a crutch. He could feel his entire body shaking and wasn't sure he could even pull the tool back toward himself. But then his head was pulled up again, and he saw a gun pressing against Rick's temple, Rick himself on his knees with his arms pinned behind his back. The look on Rick's face was a mixture of anger and concern, and Magnum knew the concern was for him rather than Rick's own self.

It took ages, it felt like it took forever, but Magnum managed to stand. All his weight was resting on the shovel, and he wasn't sure he would be able to take a single step. And then Rick was shoved over the edge of the hole. Magnum yelled and lurched forward, the shovel falling from his numb hands, only for his arms to be grabbed by two of the soldiers. The general walked to the edge of the hole and waved an imperious hand. The men holding Magnum dragged him over, and he found himself staring down at a furious-looking Rick.

"If your friend tries to climb out, my men will shoot him in the head." He waved his hand again, and movement off to the left drew Magnum's attention.

Two men, each carrying a shovel, were walking toward the hole, and Magnum couldn't help but try to struggle as they each lifted a shovelful of dirt and threw it down on Rick. A blow to the stomach put an end to that, leaving him retching from the pain.

"And now," hissed the general, smiling as he spoke, "because you cannot behave, you will not see what happens to your friend." And Magnum felt himself being grabbed, picked up to hang between his escort, all his weight on his already burning shoulders. He tried to get free, but his muscles refused to work, and all he could do was yell out Rick's name as he was dragged back toward the solitary confinement cell where he had spent so much time.

As soon as he was able to, he crawled to the door and pushed himself up against it, straining his ears. His own breathing was harsh, too loud, echoing in the absolute darkness that surrounded him, and he wondered how much damage being out in the rain all day had done. But he kept listening desperately, every second expecting to hear a gunshot. Every moment that passed in silence just made him feel worse. If Rick didn't try to climb out, then he would suffocate. At least if he made a break for it, he would die quickly.

With no reference, Magnum had no way to track the passage of time. It could have been minutes or hours before his body, pushed beyond its endurance, rebelled against his burning need to stay awake and listen for any sign of what had become of Rick. Magnum dropped into a restless, haunted sleep.

It was days before he saw anyone again. Even the general left him alone. He wasn't sure what was worse: being told how Rick had finally died or being left to agonize over which option was the most likely. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had lost Rick. That he had, quite literally, dug his friend's grave. He wasn't given any food or water, and he wasn't sure he would have been able to eat or drink anyway. The guilt and grief that were rolling in his stomach made it hard to even think about food.

The twisting of his stomach slowly grew worse. And when he started shivering even through the oppressive heat, Magnum knew he was in trouble. His body was too weak to fight off an infection, and being out in the rain had clearly been more than his immune system could handle. He thought vaguely about T.C. and Nuzo and wondered if they knew that Rick was dead. He wondered if they would be told when he died from the fever that seemed to be getting worse with each heartbeat. And then he started to wonder if either of them were even still alive. Maybe he was the last one. Maybe they were just waiting for him to give up so they could dump him in the same mass grave as his friends.

He wanted to recover just to spite them. Fight off this infection out of sheer bloodymindedness, just to screw with the general's day. That attitude kept him hanging on to his consciousness through coughing fits and nausea for the rest of the day. When the door opened, he was only barely awake, but he was awake enough to look directly at the man standing framed in the doorway.

"So you still live." The general didn't sound disappointed, and Magnum felt a flare of annoyance leap in his gut. He'd wanted nothing more than to annoy this animal. "Back to your friends then. For now." No doubt that was meant to be a threat, to leave Magnum in an agony of anticipation over his next trip to this godforsaken hellhole.

But… friends? More than one? T.C. and Nuzo must both still be alive after all! Magnum felt his heart leap at the thought and actually tried to help the soldiers who pulled him to his feet. The quicker he stood, the quicker he could see them, prove to himself that they were really still alive.

He was almost hurrying along the familiar pathway to the cells where they were all kept, his feet tangling in each other and his chest heaving from the exertion.

"Thomas?"

Wait. That voice? It was impossible; he must be hallucinating. He must still be in that dark, silent cell, addled with fever. He let his eyes drift closed in defeat, not wanting to see the images his mind had summoned of his friends. His breath left him as he was dropped to the floor and almost instantly felt hands lifting him again. But these were gentle, careful of his old injuries as they checked for newer ones. These weren't the hands of Taliban soldiers.

"C'mon, Tommy. I know you're awake."

Magnum forced his eyes open. It was hard to focus, and he was still half-convinced it was a fever dream. But he felt water against his lips, and it felt so real. He stared up at Rick's face as he tried to swallow, convinced the illusion would fall apart as soon as his body realized there was no water. Instead, he felt the soothing rush of cool liquid on his parched throat, and Rick leaned in closer.

"I'm good, T.M.," he whispered soothingly. "It started raining again, and those work-shy idiots changed their minds about burying me."

Magnum was too out of it to see the looks that passed between his friends, looks that said it hadn't been that simple at all. He gave a weak snort of laughter that left him coughing and choking and was immediately reprimanded by Nuzo for being an idiot. Then his friends were lifting him carefully, carrying him into the cell, and Magnum let himself relax for the first time since he had been dragged out and seen that shovel sitting on the ground.

Months after they finally escaped, Rick would confess how close he'd come to dying that day. He would tell them that he'd had the taste of the mud in his mouth for days after. He would tell them that he never knew why his captors had decided to yank him out just seconds after he was hit by the shovelful of mud that covered his face. T.C. and Nuzo would try their best to explain the indescribable fear of not knowing where their friends had been taken or what was happening to them. They would try to describe how they felt when Rick was dumped on the ground in front of them, covered head to toe in muck, shaking like a leaf. And Magnum would try his hardest to share the feeling he had been left with after convincing himself he was the only one left alive.

But, for now, none of that mattered to any of them. They were all still alive for now, and that was the best they could hope for.


End file.
